


Another Life

by logsig



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logsig/pseuds/logsig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrus helps Shepard with a problem from his past.  Inspired by the prompt "Shepard's loyalty mission".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to smehur for the prompt and beta.

He realizes something's different almost immediately.  It's the sound.  Most of the time, when John shows up at the battery, the cadence of his boots unmistakably commands _get your ass in gear._ And Garrus' ears know that message so well that the moment they hear it, his hands reflexively reach for his helmet and rifle.  By the time the footsteps reach the door, he's checking the seals on his armor, and when the door opens, he's ready.  A curt nod exchanged, two steps forward to John's side, matching his stride back down the corridor, listening intently to the few terse words that will tell him exactly what needs killing, groundside.  It's all in the sound of the walk...  But this isn't _that_ walk.   
  
Lately, there's been another: a slow, quiet rhythm that murmurs _I'm going to stand behind you and describe, in graphic detail, exactly what I want to do to you, until you give up pretending to work._ That one makes his hands reflexively lock down the console, to prevent a repeat of that incident two weeks ago when several seconds of no-longer-pretending-to-work audio were transmitted down an open channel to Engineering.  Mostly incoherent moaning; he doesn't think he called out John's name or anything, but it's not like he can control himself when he's being—    
  
He grits his teeth and pushes away the thoughts crowding into his mind, because, sadly, this isn't _that_ walk, either.  This is something he's never heard before.  The footsteps have stopped.  Complete stillness outside.   _Hesitation?_  He glances at the lock indicator just to be sure—the light's green, it's unlocked.  He's almost decided to go and see what's happening when the door hisses open.   
  
"Garrus.  I need to take care of something.  Personal.  Could use your help, if you've got the time."   
  
"Of course."  He searches John's expression for clues, but there's nothing there, or at least nothing he understands.  "Whatever you need."   
  
"Thanks, I'll hold you to that."  There's a trace of humor in his eyes.  "We're not far from Demeter.  Should be there in a half an hour. "  He turns to leave.  "I’m going to go see who else is free."   
  
Garrus folds his arms.  "You're not going to tell me what this is about?"   
  
"Don't really know," John says.  "Could be a rescue mission.  Could be nothing.  Could be an interesting little side trip.  Or could just be a pain in the ass."    
  
" _You're_ a pain—"   
  
"Maybe later, Garrus."   
  
  


***

  
  
John,   
  
I know we've had our differences, but I don't know where else to turn.  Daniel's disappeared.  I need help.  No one believes me.  Please.  For old times' sake.   
  
Ariane Morel   
  
  
  
"Not a whole lot to go on," Garrus says.  He and Taylor are reading the message off John's omnitool as the Normandy docks.   
  
"Yeah."  John shuts down the display and leads the way along the ramp, into the spaceport.   
  
"Let me guess,"  Taylor says.  "An ex."   
  
John glances at him.  "Ex what?"    
  
Taylor rolls his eyes.  "C'mon man."  Seeing John's blank expression, he continues, "You know, _ex_ , as in _former_ , girlfriend?"   
  
"Good guess."   
  
"Who's Daniel?"   
  
"I assume she means her husband.  It better not be her dog."  A grimace.  "There she is."   
  
"John!"  A woman runs towards them—with surprising grace, considering her high heels—and flings her arms around John's neck.  "Thank god you're here."    
  
"Hello, Ariane."  He pushes her hair out of his face and catches Garrus' gaze.  His eyes flick towards her and back again.   _Watch._   
  
She's tall, even without the heels, and her hair falls down to the middle of her back in barely-tamed waves.  It's glossy dark brown with red highlights, in constant motion, and makes Garrus think, uncharitably, of a roiling mass of insects.  At the moment, he can only see the back of her dress, but from the brief interval before the front was pressed so urgently against John, he remembers it as looking good on her, emphasizing her supple curves.  Expensive, most likely.  The color is... a sort of...  orangish pink.  There's probably a name for it.    
  
He clears his throat.   
  
"Allow me to introduce my colleagues," John says.  He disentangles her from his person.  "Garrus Vakarian, former Citadel Security, and Jacob Taylor, former Alliance Navy."   
  
She turns to face them.  "Ariane Morel.  A pleasure."  She doesn't offer to shake hands, but stands with one hand on her smooth white skin, just below her throat, perfectly framing the flawless red jewel that hangs there on a thin gold chain.  There's a companion to that gem on her finger, catching the light streaming in from the high windows.  Brilliant gray eyes.  Strong cheekbones.  Delicate lines.  She's... beautiful.  She's had a lot of practice at it.   
  
John's eyes catch his again.   _You see?_   
  
Garrus nods, barely moving his head.  He observes dispassionately that her other hand is still on John's arm.  But a moment later, John takes a step back to let a crowd of tourists, overloaded with bags from the gift shop, get to the row of seats behind them.  The hand falls away.   
  
"What's the situation, Ariane?"    
  
She bites her lip.  "I don't want to talk about it here.  Let's go to the house, and you can see for yourself.  My car's outside."   
  
"Fine.  Lead the way."  He walks beside her, but far enough away that she can't cling onto him.   
  
"Well, she's sure as hell not his sister," Taylor says.  He hasn't taken his eyes off her the whole time, and there's a note of admiration in his voice.   
  
"Probably not," Garrus agrees.  "No family resemblance.  And I'm fairly sure he doesn't have a sister, anyway."   
  
Taylor looks sideways at him.  "Don't suppose you know what the story is."   
  
"No.  But whatever it is, it'll be good."   
  
  


***

  
  
When the car begins to descend over rows of blooming fruit trees tended by advancing ranks of ag-mechs with sprayers, it becomes apparent that _house_ is a poor sort of word for the Morel residence.  There's a sweeping circular driveway, paved in white stone, surrounding a fountain the size of a small city block.  Manicured lawns, trimmed hedges.  The main building, looming in front of them, could comfortably accommodate two battalions.  And their artillery support.   
  
Garrus sniffs the air as he gets out of the car.  The faint acrid overtone must be whatever the mechs were spraying.  Mostly, it's a mixture of cut grass and the heavy scent of pale pink flowers.  The promise of nectar and summer fruit.  Pleasant.  Sweet.  A little cloying.   
  
"This way," Morel says.  She leads them up a short flight of elegantly shallow stone steps, into the _house_.  The entryway is dominated by a pair of conjoined spiral staircases, flanked by massive crystal chandeliers.  Gilt-framed landscape paintings hang on the walls, and the windows are three stories tall.  "It's upstairs," she says.  Her voice echoes through the cavernous space.    
  
Halfway up the stairs, they're met by a domestic mech holding a tray of wineglasses filled with a clear, pale red liquid.    
  
"Drinks, gentlemen?"  Morel takes a glass by its stem and sips from it.  "Redfruit wine, last year's vintage.  We're trying to develop a market for it.  Quite similar to peaches."  She glances at Garrus.  "If you know what those are."   
  
John frowns.  "Cut the crap, Ariane.  What happened to Daniel?"   
  
She bites her lip, puts the glass back on the tray and continues up the stairs, then leads them through a hallway that runs towards the back of the house.    
  
"He was working here in his study, before I left to meet with a new distributor, and when I came home—"  She unlocks the door and gestures for them to enter.   
  
Floor to ceiling windows.  In the distance, a purple mountain range disappearing into the clouds.  On the walls, banks of display cabinets.  The desk, which looks like it weighs several tons, runs the length of the windows.  The chairs arranged around the coffee table are large and covered in real leather.  Everything, even the floor, is dark wood.    
  
John says, "Very nice, Ariane.  Why are we here?"   
  
"Damn you, John, look!  Everything's gone!"  There's anger and helpless frustration in her voice.  "This room used to be full of his things.  And him, too!"   
  
Garrus steps to the cabinets on the left wall and examines them.   Most of the shelves look like they're built to hold something about the size of a rifle, and there's close to sixty shelves on this one wall.  There's nothing in them now but a thin layer of dust, perhaps a couple of weeks old.  But on a few, there's a faint impression, a darker color in the wood where an object would have blocked the light.  He turns to look at Taylor, who's gone to the other side of the room,  and is standing by the other bank of cabinets.  Taylor shakes his head.   
  
John has circled round the back of the desk, and is opening drawers, apparently at random.  Garrus can't see into them, but it's not difficult to guess that they're all empty.   
  
"I assume you reported this," John says.   
  
"Of course."  She's leaning in the doorway, one hand on her forehead.  "There were dozens of police here, taking pictures and scanning for DNA—" she waves vaguely—"or whatever it is they do."   
  
"And?"   
  
"And they said there was no evidence of foul play, and Daniel probably took everything with him when he left me!"   
  
Garrus stares at the woman for a second, then quickly looks at John.  With the light coming in from the window behind him, it's hard to see his eyes.  But for a moment it almost seems like he's... amused.   
  
Maybe not.  When he speaks, there's no trace of emotion in his voice.  "So he said he was leaving you?"   
  
"Of course not!"  She turns away.  "God.  Don't you dare enjoy this, you bastard."   
  
John rolls his eyes.  He makes his way towards Taylor, leans back against the cabinet next to him, and folds his arms.    
  
"Ariane," he says,  "Detective Vakarian has a great deal of experience in these types of cases."  He smirks at Garrus and whirls one finger in the air.   _Start your engines._   
  
Garrus stiffens his mandibles vehemently, but only gets a pointed look in return. _Whatever you need, remember?_  He closes his eyes and sighs.   _Well, fuck._  Dredging up his best C-Sec manner, he approaches the complainant.    
  
"Ms. Morel.  I realize this is a very difficult time for you, and I appreciate your patience.  If I may ask you a few questions?  The answers could help our investigation."   
  
"Yes," she whispers.   
  
"Who was the officer in charge of your case?"   
  
"Detective Sergeant Gabriel Lambert, at the central police station, downtown."  She taps her omnitool.  "Here, this is his card."   
  
"Thank you.  That will be very helpful."  He clears his throat.  "Um.  Do you have any idea how Sergeant Lambert was led to believe your husband left you?"   
  
She doesn't answer.  Instead, she walks over to the windows, and leans her forehead against the glass.  For lack of a better idea, Garrus goes to stand beside her.   
  
Just outside, almost up against the house, is a small garden dotted with stone sculptures.  Slender conifers, reaching for the sky through beds of tall, lush ornamental grasses.  In the middle, a pond shaded by a gnarled old tree, its new green leaves just now unfurling.  Ripples on the water, a flash of orange and silver just below the surface.   
  
"Peaceful," he says.   
  
"He made that himself, last year.  Planted everything, dug the pond, moved the rocks.  With his own hands.  It's small, but... he's so proud of it.  Whenever we have visitors, he drags them out there to show them."  She smiles, but there are tears in her eyes.  "It's the only part of the gardens that he really took an interest in.  With all the rest, he just told me to do whatever I wanted.  Same thing with the house.  When we redecorated, this is the only space he wanted to have for himself.  He picked out all the furniture, and filled the room with things he enjoyed.  Keepsakes, art, his old weapons."    
  
"Old weapons?"   
  
"Yes, he collects them.  It's a hobby, I suppose it started when he was in the Marines.  Some of them are centuries old.  I don't pretend to know anything about it."   
  
"He was a  Marine?"   
  
"Yes.  There's a picture of his unit over on that wall—" She turns to point, then sighs.  "There _was_ a picture of his unit on that wall.  And pictures of his family, going back generations.  And there was one of him and John, from when they served together."   
  
Garrus narrows his eyes.  "Oh."   
  
She looks at him.  "Didn't John tell you they met in the service?"   
  
"No."   _Must have slipped his mind._   
  
"Well, it's not really important."  She glances at John, who's having a quiet conversation with Taylor.  Judging from the hand gestures, grenades are the topic of discussion.  "Though—" she stops.   
  
Feeling like he's on the edge of something important, Garrus says, "What?"   
  
"Your colleague was in the service too, wasn't he?  What was his name again?  Taylor?"   
  
Garrus blinks.  "Taylor, yes.  He was."   
  
"How long have he and John been seeing each other?"   
  
"What?  Uh.  Oh.  Um.... not long at all?"   
  
"Well, he's John's type, alright.  Maybe a little more muscular than I'd have thought, but he does like the _soldierly_ sort of man.  I suppose that's one of the reasons he's stayed in the service all this time."   
  
Garrus considers and rejects a number of possible responses to this.  Finally, he goes with, "You never answered my question."   
  
She sighs.  "Sergeant Lambert said that Daniel took a flight to Bekenstein, alone.  The ticket was paid for out of his account, and one of the attendants remembers seeing him.  There was a manifest for a container of 'personal effects' that was shipped port-to-port.  The clerk at the receiving depot said he remembered someone looking like Daniel signing for it.  And... there was some vid, taken at a club in Milgrom.  Supposedly of Daniel drinking and laughing, having a good time with his new lover."  She tosses her head.    
  
"Have you tried to get in touch with him?"   
  
"Of course.  He wouldn't reply to any of my messages or take my calls.  Sergeant Lambert asked the Milgrom police to track him down.  According to them, he said that he was fine, he didn't want to talk to me, and I could have everything he left behind on Demeter."    
  
"And you still don't think he left you."   
  
She turns to face him.  "I know my husband, and I know he wouldn't do this."   
  
"Ms. Morel, I understand the depth of your feeling—"   
  
"No, you don't understand.  I'm not saying he wouldn't leave me.  I'm saying he wouldn't leave without saying a _word_ to me beforehand.  He's not like that."  She looks over her shoulder again.  "Ask John.  He knows him."   
  
Garrus nods.   _Apparently so._   
  
"I did think of just going there and looking for him, but...  I don't know what I could do even if I did find him.  And if—if he really did intend to leave me—I don't know what I could possibly say."  She bites her lip, and the tears sparkle in her eyes.    
  
"Of course.  I understand your position, Ms. Morel."   _Like hell I do.  If you care about it, fucking fight for it._   
  
"Here," she says,  "If you're going to see Sergeant Lambert, you'll need a car."  She passes him a key fob.   
  
"Thank you, Ms. Morel.  One final thing.  Do you have a picture of your husband?"   
  
"Yes, of course."  She taps her omnitool.  "There, this is a holo taken at the beach last summer.  It's the same one I gave the police."    
  
"Excellent.  We'll see what we can do, Ms. Morel."   
  
  


***

  
  
"So?"  John asks as they escape the house and walk down the steps towards the car.  A light drizzle has begun to fall, washing the sweet floral scents out of the air.  With the sun now high in the sky, it's unpleasantly warm and humid.  Garrus shifts uncomfortably.  His suit is sticking to him inside his armor.  He hates that.   
  
"There’s quite a bit of evidence supporting the theory that he left on his own.  She doesn't believe any of it, of course.  But since Detective Vakarian is taking over the case—" Garrus shoots a disgusted look at John—”I propose that we go talk to the _actual_ detective in charge of the original investigation, and examine the evidence for ourselves."   
  
"Good.  Anything else?"   
  
"Yeah.  She thinks you're hot for Taylor."   
  
"Whoa, what?" Taylor says.   
  
John laughs.  "Exactly when did that come up?"   
  
Garrus opens the driver's side door and gets in.  "While we were discussing the nature of your relationship with her husband."   
  
"Former relationship," John says, getting into the front passenger seat.   
  
"What?" Taylor repeats.   
  
John turns around.  "You know, Jacob _.  Former_ , as in _ex._ "   
  
"Yeah, I got that, thanks.  Goddamn, Vakarian.  You didn't tell her there's nothing between us?"   
  
Garrus looks at Taylor in the rearview.  "Well, you are his type.  He likes the _soldierly_ sort of man."   
  
"Well hell, Shepard," Taylor says.  "That narrows it down to about thirty million of the Alliance's finest.  You think that'll keep you busy for a while?"   
  
John shakes his head in mock disapproval.  "Don't be bitter, Jacob.  It's unattractive.  Just take a number and wait your turn like everyone else."   
  
Taylor tries to think of a comeback, fails, and settles for flipping John off.  Garrus reaches into the back and slaps him across the side of his head.   
  
"Ow.  What was that for?"      
  
"Insubordination."   
  
Garrus pulls up the detective's card and sets the car's nav system for the police station.  As the car takes off, he says to John, "You might want to let Sergeant Lambert  know we're coming.  I doubt a request from a former C-Sec investigator is going to open too many doors at the local PD, but one from the first human Spectre might.  Try being a little more charming than you were with her, if that's possible."   
  
John nods and begins to compose a message.  Garrus brings up the holo of Daniel Morel.  John's _type_ or not, he looks nothing at all like Taylor.  Angular.  Sinewy.  Mid-length brown hair, blue eyes.  There's a scar running down the left side of his face.  The skin of his hands is stained, rough with use.  His fingernails are uneven, and there are dark circles under his eyes.    
  
"That our guy?"  Taylor leans forward for a better look.  "Combat engineer, huh."    
  
"How can you tell?"   
  
"That tattoo on his right arm.  Thing that looks like a castle."  He glances at John, who's still doing something on his omnitool.  "Shepard.  How'd you two meet?"   
  
"It was during the Theshaca raids," John says, not looking up.  "His unit was assigned to open some doors for mine."    
  
Taylor laughs.  "Yeah, they do that very well.  I used to know a couple sappers.  You know, they're all—"   
  
"—batshit insane," John finishes, with a smile.  "Yeah.  We got along pretty well."    
  
"What happened?"  Garrus says softly, his eyes on the sky ahead.   
  
"He met Ariane."   
  
There's silence in the car for several moments.   
  
"He left you for her?"  Garrus asks.  "Why?"   
  
"You've seen her, right?"  Taylor says.  "Sorry, Shepard.  I mean, you're pretty and all, but she's way better looking."   
  
John snorts.  "It wasn't just that."  He sighs.  "Batarian pirates rammed a bridge his platoon was rigging to blow.  Most of them were killed.  He barely made it.  Six-ton crossbeam crushed his leg.  The jagged edge peeled his face wide open.  After he got out of the hospital, he went back to Earth on shore leave.  That's where they met.  She was principal dancer for the Paris Opera Ballet, youngest ever.  Still dances for them, three months out of the year.  Her father was an artist, her mother a fifteenth-generation winemaker.  They had nothing to do with the Alliance, blowing things up, or killing people...  He said that when he watched her dance, it took him to a better place."  He looks out the window.  "A different kind of life."   
  
"Shit,"  Taylor says.  He sits back.  "Nothing you can say to that."    
  
"Yeah."   
  
There's silence again.  After a while, Garrus says, "He's got that huge estate.  And the only part of it that he cares about is his study, and the little garden under the window."  He corrects himself.  "Allegedly.   But if you believe that, it's got to say something about his state of mind."   
  
"It does,"  John says.  His fingers tap the armrest three, four times, then stop.   
  
  


***

  
  
The police station is depressingly familiar.  The officers on duty in the front office glance up at them with uncurious, vaguely hostile looks, then return their attention to their terminals and the interminable reports.  Except for one, at a desk in the back corner, who's reading a porn magazine and loudly chewing gum.  Gray desks, scuffed floors, unwashed windows.  Muffled shouting from the holding cells in the back.  An endless parade of juvenile delinquents and stinking addicts.  And hanging over everything, a stale cloud of cynicism.    
  
The harassed duty sergeant listens only long enough to hear the name _Lambert_ before waving them to the second floor, buzzing the elevator access door open with one finger of a hand that's already holding a slopping coffee mug.  Garrus jabs the close button and reminds himself he doesn't work here.  Spirits, even the elevator music—   
  
The door opens.   _Too young._  That's the first thing he thinks when he sets eyes on Detective Sergeant Gabriel Lambert.  Nice suit, clean-shaven, recent haircut.  In decent shape, good posture.  Closer examination reveals lines on his face, and his eyes have seen the sorts of things that cops don't talk about when they sit, drinking silently, in cop bars.  Lambert isn't young, certainly no younger than most of the dead-eyed officers downstairs, but he's sporting a grin that lights up the whole corridor and throws Garrus' estimation completely off.   
  
"An honor to meet you, sir."  He pumps John's hand enthusiastically.  "I know what you did on Elysium, and at the Battle of the Citadel.  Thank you for your service."   
  
"Just doing my duty, Sergeant."  John looks into the detective's eyes and smiles.  "As you are.  The local news has a lot of good things to say about you."   
  
Lambert snorts.  "I've had some lucky breaks."   
  
"That double homicide four months ago?  Wasn't luck that broke it.  It was days of digging through files, and careful field work."  John answers Lambert's look of surprise with another smile.  "You care about this job, and you're damned good at it."   
  
"Fuck."  He knows it, but he's embarrassed to hear it spoken out loud.  "Don't go spreading that shit around."    
  
"It'll spread itself."  A pause.  "You  were in charge of the Morel case.  I was hoping I could waste some more of your time with that."   
  
Lambert casts a speculative eye at John.  "Sure.  Anything for the—" he grins—"fuckin' Hero of the Citadel."   
  
"I appreciate that."  The smile again.  "Is there... somewhere private we can talk?"    
  
The detective laughs.  "Well now—"   Then he seems to register the fact that John isn't alone.  "Yes, the conference room is free.  If you'll follow me, gentlemen."   
  
John raises both eyebrows at Garrus before starting down the corridor.   
  
Taylor whispers, "Is he always like this?  And I've just never noticed?"   
  
"If you're asking if he usually hits on random strangers," Garrus says, testily, "No, he doesn't.  He's trying to prove some kind of point."   
  
"Don’t think that point needed proving."  Taylor turns to follow the others .  "Still, must be nice to be a fuckin' hero."   
  
In the conference room, John's standing at the ballistic-glass window looking out at the street below.  The drizzle has turned into a downpour, and nobody with any sense is still outdoors.  There's nothing to see out there but the rain.    
  
He says,  "Sergeant Lambert, these are my colleagues Garrus Vakarian and Jacob Taylor."  He waits for them to exchange handshakes.  Leaning back against the window, he continues, "Would you tell us about the case, please?"   
  
Garrus takes a seat and listens.  Lambert, at the head of the table, leans forward in his chair and summarizes the case in succinct sentences, working from memory.  Nothing they don't already know, but the facts are presented clearly and logically, as are his conclusions.  There doesn't seem to be much room for doubt.  Any reasonable person would think the same.   
  
"Just after I closed the case, one of the search algorithms I'd left running threw this up," Lambert says.  "It's a news report from Milgrom.  I use the word _news_ loosely."  He selects something on the terminal in front of him.  The lights dim and the large screen mounted on the far wall comes to life.    
  
A parade of bizarrely-dressed persons occupies a city street.  Spectators line the pavements, wearing large hats, applauding sporadically with just the tips of their fingers.  The logo of the news station appears with the caption _Spring Fashion Walk fills city streets with beautiful people_.  A reporter steps into the picture and begins talking affectedly, something about ultraviolet being this year's color.  Lambert freezes the vid.   
  
"Upper left corner.  Coming out of that liquor store."   
  
It's Daniel Morel, looking fit and well, carrying a crate marked with a flowing black sigil that resembles the spiraling flight of a bird.    
  
"Asari honey mead," Lambert says.  "Top-shelf stuff.  Very nice, if you can afford it."   
  
"Can't he?" John asks.   
  
Lambert laughs.  "Hell, yeah.  You know that.  The ag-mech business nets him billions annually.  Doesn't even include the income from her family's business—the orchards, the vineyards and all that.  No debts to speak of, and I dug deep.  Shit.  Have you seen where they live?  They just redid the whole place a year ago, talk about economic stimulus—"    
  
Garrus realizes what's been bothering him.  "No tattoo."   
  
"You're right."  Taylor stands up and moves towards the screen.  "Pull up that holo again."   
  
They look from the holo to the screen, assessing.  In the news vid, he's wearing a gray T-shirt, but the sleeve on his right arm is partly hiked up by the edge of the crate, so there should be half of a castle visible, and there isn't.   
  
"He had it removed," Lambert says.  "I'll show you why I think that in a minute."   
  
John's taken a step forward and is gripping the back of a chair.  He's staring, not at the screen or at the holo, but at a spot in the middle of the table.    
  
They all look expectantly at him, but he says nothing.    
  
"Play the rest," Garrus says.   
  
The vid resumes.  Morel walks a few paces away from the shop door.  Behind him, another man exits the shop.  The second man is wearing a cap, pulled low over his face.  Morel waits for him, and then the two walk off together, out of the top edge of the frame.   
  
"His face is shadowed, but that looks like the same guy that was in the footage from the club," Lambert says.  His fingers move over the terminal.  "Give me a second here, got to check out the case file.  Server's been as slow as hell since they upgraded the network.  Upgrade my ass."    
  
Garrus glances at John.  He's back leaning against the window, apparently unconcerned, maybe even slightly bored.  But when he senses Garrus looking at him, he meets his gaze, and his head shakes slightly.   _Something's wrong._   
  
Garrus nods.    
  
"Here we go," Lambert says.  "This footage was taken by an informant working for the Milgrom PD.  Hidden camera.  Quality's pretty poor, but I had to call in a favor just to get this much out of them.  They're not real big on interjurisdictional cooperation.  Hell, they're not that big on police work either.  Showed them clear evidence of a crime, couldn't even get them to open a new case file."   
  
Pulsating music, lights flashing.  The camera iris isn't keeping up with the changes in light level, and the picture is dark and grainy, almost colorless.  Raucous laughter.  At a corner booth, Daniel Morel pours himself a drink from a bottle and clinks his glass against that of another man, sitting beside him.  It's almost certainly the man from outside the liquor store, though he's not wearing a cap, here.  His short blond hair, styled into artful spikes,  reflects the colors of the strobes.  Shiny with that stuff humans use.   _Hair gel._   
  
Taylor says, "Can't really see his right arm from this angle."   
  
"Few more seconds."  Lambert has his hand poised over the terminal.   
  
Hairgel takes something out of his pocket.  The camera zooms in shakily on him.  It's a small vial.  He breaks the top off.  Morel holds out his glass, and Hairgel empties the vial into it.  A mass of bubbles rises within the liquid.  Morel, laughing, swallows half his drink, puts an arm around Hairgel, feeds him the other half, then pulls him close and kisses him.    
  
"There."  Lambert freezes the vid.  "There's the tattoo."   
  
"Yes,"  Garrus says.  "When was this taken?"   
  
"Timestamp says nine days ago.  I got this the evening after."  Lambert leans back in his chair.  "That's five days before the fashion walk, if you're wondering."    
  
They watch the rest of the vid, but apart from the fact that Hairgel has multiple nipple piercings, there's nothing more to be learned.   
  
Taylor sits back down.  "I guess somewhere in between the drinking and the drugs, he found the time to get that tattoo removed."   
  
"Don't forget the sex," Lambert says.  "But the whole damn planet's crawling with plastic surgeons.  Celebrities with their own medical chat shows, or back-street body-snatchers, there's one for every budget.  They probably make house calls.  Twenty minutes under the torch, and it's back to the party."   
  
"Sergeant," John says.  "You wouldn't happen to have Daniel Morel's current address  in that file, would you?"   
  
"Why?  You planning on going out there?"   
  
"If I am?"   
  
Lambert sighs, and lets his head fall back against the headrest of his chair.  "I shouldn't give it to you.  You know that."  He looks at John.  "But if I don't, you'll just go to the Chief and get him to twist my arm.  Tell him it's Spectre business, right?"   
  
John shrugs.   
  
"It isn't, though," Lambert continues, doggedly.  "This is personal.  Tell me I'm wrong about that."   
  
John says nothing.  He fixes his gaze on the detective, his eyes calm.  Garrus holds his breath for what seems like minutes.    
  
"Shit."  Lambert looks away.  He drums his fingers on the table, then pinches the bridge of his nose.  "I need a coffee."   
  
Garrus keeps his expression carefully immobile while the detective walks out of the room.  As soon as the door closes,  John moves to the terminal.  Ten seconds is all it takes, then he's back by the window, staring out at the rain.   
  
When Lambert returns, stirring his coffee, he says, "He specifically said he didn't want to see his wife."   
  
John shrugs.  "She's not going to look for him.  She doesn't know where he lives."   
  
Lambert's lip twitches as puts his coffee down on the table.  "Anything else I can do for you, Commander?"   
  
"Probably.  But you've done more than enough, Sergeant.  Thank you."    
  
Lambert grins.  "My pleasure, Commander."  They shake hands.   
  
At the door, John turns.  "Lambert.  I owe you one.  You know how to get hold of me."   
  
Lambert nods.  "Take care, Shepard."   
  
  


***

  
  
As soon as they're back on the Normandy, John tells Joker to set a course for Bekenstein, then heads for the elevator.  Garrus stops and listens to the footsteps ringing against the floor, slowly fading away.   
  
"My ass is already in gear, John," he says, under his breath.    
  
Taylor gives him a puzzled look.  "Did you say something?"   
  
"No."   
  
Joker swivels in his chair.  "So.  You guys see her?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"She a ten out of ten?"   
  
Taylor squints appraisingly.  "Maybe a nine.  Personality's not all that great, though."   
  
"Yeah, well.  Not everyone takes the approach to romance that you do, Jacob."   
  
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"   
  
"I'm just sayin', there aren’t enough genetically-engineered super-bitches to go around—"   
  
"Joker," Garrus interrupts.  "What do you know about Daniel Morel?"   
  
Joker leans back and stares at the ceiling.  "Let me think.  Uh, he's some inventor-industrialist type with shitloads of money?  He's got a hot wife?  What else, what else..."  He taps a finger on his chin.  "Nope.  That's all I got."   
  
Garrus glares at him.   
  
"Hey, it's no use giving me the evil eye," Joker says.  "It's not going to put any more knowledge into my head.  It might even make me so scared I'll start forgetting stuff.  And then we'll all be up shit creek, 'cause I'll forget how to not fly this ship into the side of a fuckin' planet."   
  
"That is unlikely," EDI says.   
  
"C'mon, Joker.  If you know something, spill it."  Taylor spreads his hands.  "I'll let you win at poker."   
  
"No, you won't.  That is _such_ a lie.  Anyway, what makes you two goons think I know anything?"   
  
"If anyone knows anything about Shepard's personal life, it's you," Garrus says.  "You're the biggest gossip on this ship."    
  
Joker shakes his head.  "Flattery will get you nowhere in this particular case.  Sorry, Garrus.  I'd like to help."   
  
Taylor looks disbelieving.  "You're not even curious?"   
  
"Oh, I'm plenty curious.  But I tried broaching the subject with Shepard earlier this morning.  And, let me tell you—" he stabs a finger in Garrus' direction—"your evil eye is nowhere near championship standard.  I lost half a day of my memory when he gave me that look.  I still don't remember where I put my danish.  I can't find it anywhere."   
  
"You ate it, Jeff,"  EDI says.   
  
"Did I?"  Joker swivels back around to face his instruments.  "Huh.  That might explain why I keep burping blueberries."   
  
Taylor grabs his chair and spins him back around.  "You're lying."   
  
"Whoa, whiplash."   
  
"I've played enough poker with you to know that shifty look.  You're hiding something."   
  
Joker sighs.  "Shit."  He looks down for a couple of seconds.  "Okay, look, I knew the guy.  I talked to him a couple of times.  And then I actually evac'ed his platoon—what was left of it—out from that mission that killed almost all of them."  He looks up.  "You know about that?"   
  
"The bridge that the pirates rammed."   
  
"Yeah.  So... they carry him onboard, and he's... a mess.  Right?  I mean, he looks like a half-eaten ration.  And he keeps trying to get up.  Keeps saying,  'Got to go back.'  'Got to get my guys out'.  Over and over again.  It's like a bad horror vid, that zombie thing, you know? Whenever it moves, bits of flesh fall off.  Until they sedate him.  It's..."  Joker looks away.  "You don't forget seeing that."   
  
Taylor nods.  "Sounds like a tough guy.  He obviously cared about his platoon."   
  
"Yeah," Joker says.  "The impression that I got, the times I talked to him, the Navy was his life.  He was smart, he could have gone into business and made a shitload of money.  But he chose to run into hellholes and blow shit up because that was what he loved doing."  He shrugs.  "At least, until a bridge fell on him.  Then he quit and went into business and made a shitload of money.  Go figure."   
  
Nobody says anything for a while.  Then Joker tugs his cap further down over his face, and turns back around.  "And that's really all I've got."   
  
Garrus walks slowly to the elevator.  His hand hovers over the down button.  Back down to the main battery and the old familiar post-mission rituals.  Or—?   _Should I go talk to him?  If he didn't tell me anything before, why would he talk about it now?  Maybe I should let him have his privacy.  I have no idea what to say, anyway._   
  
He remembers.  The scent of spring blossoms.  The empty study.  The woman by the window overlooking the garden, the tears in her eyes.   _I don't know what I could possibly say_.   
  
_ Like hell I do.   _ He mashes the up button.   
  
  


***

  
  
Garrus enters just far enough into John's quarters so the proximity sensors don't hold the door open.  He waits for it to close, then tries for nonchalance.    
  
"Hey.  Thought I'd stop by and see if you wanted to talk."   
  
John says, "Since when do you need a reason to stop by?"  He's busy putting his armor away, and doesn't look up.   
  
_ Since you sprang this shit on me, John.  Let's all go on a rescue mission.  Oh, by the way, this is my ex-lover.  You don't mind, do you, Garrus?  Why no, John.  Anything for you. _  But he doesn't say it.   
  
When moments pass and John doesn't get an answer, he stops what he's doing.  They stare at each other for several heartbeats.  Then John slams the closet door and strides quickly up the steps.    
  
" _Garrus._ "  His eyes burn darkly, and his voice is raw.    
  
Garrus looks down at the floor.  "I wasn't sure if—"   _If I'd be welcome here.  If I wanted to be welcome here.  If I understood what was going on between us before.  Or now.  Not sure of anything._   
  
John's hand on his face, cool and familiar.  "Be sure," he says softly.   
  
Garrus looks back up, into his eyes.  After a while, he nods and looks away. The moment passes.   
  
John turns and walks back down to the lower level.  "Thanks for helping me with Ariane," he says.  "She's... difficult for me to deal with."  He sits down on the couch and reaches for the tall glass bottle on the coffee table.    
  
Garrus takes a breath, shakes away the lingering vestiges of anger and confusion, and follows him down the steps.  "You're on good enough terms that she can call you for help."   
  
John unscrews the cap and sniffs at the bottle.  "Feel like trying some of this?  You could be a trendsetter.  It probably won't actually kill you."   
  
"Redfruit wine?"  Garrus says.  "That was the package she gave you before we left?"   
  
"Yeah."  John pours a little into a glass and tastes it.  "It's not bad."   
  
Garrus sits down beside him.  "So what's the story?  There's no hard feelings?"   
  
John puts the glass down and smirks.  He doesn't even have to say the words.  Garrus can hear his voice in his mind, deep and laced with laughter: _I get hard feelings when I think of you, Garrus._   
  
"You know what I mean."   
  
"I wouldn't be here if it didn't concern Daniel."  John sits back.  "It's not like I owe him, but—"  He's looking into the distance.  "He was a friend, once."   
  
"Yeah.  I get that."   
  
"As for her, when she decided she wanted him, she tracked me down and invited me to... _share_ him."   
  
Garrus blinks.   
  
"I asked her if she'd asked _him_ if he wanted to be shared."  John pours more wine into the glass.  "She hadn't."   
  
"Um.  Okay.  And so...?"   
  
"And so—that, right there, tells you everything you need to know about her."  John sips his wine.  "And he didn't, by the way."   
  
"You're not really the sharing type anyway."   _And neither am I._   
  
John laughs.    
  
Garrus leans forward, elbows on his knees.  "Why'd he leave her?"   
  
"She's collateral damage.  Back then, I thought he ran away _to_ Ariane.  But she was just a pit stop.  He's still running."  He's turning the glass around in his hands, not looking at it.  "This time, it's not going to end so well."   
  
"The drugs?"   
  
"Did you recognize it?  The stuff in the vial."   
  
Garrus shakes his head.  "Clear liquid, could be anything."    
  
"I'll give you a hint:  he was drinking Scotch, and Scotch isn't carbonated."   
  
" _Shit._ " _I should have fucking known that._   
  
"Don't feel bad.  It’s not like you know what peaches are, either."    
  
" _Fuck._ "  Garrus slams a fist on the table.  "Lambert caught it.  That's the new case file that the Milgrom PD wouldn't open."   
  
John nods.   
  
"This is insane," Garrus says.  "Rapture's not legal _anywhere_.  There's even a legend that Aria T'Loak caught a guy trying to bring it onto Omega and had him flayed for a bedside rug.  Last I heard, you can't get a taste of it for less than half a million.  I never heard of anyone who'd seen _any_ at C-Sec, and that says something."  He takes a deep breath.  "If that stuff was Rapture, it was a lot more than just a taste."   
  
"Billionaire, remember."   
  
"Yeah."  He snorts.  "Not for long."   
  
"Which brings me to the other problem."   
  
Garrus is already there.  "Anyone who can supply him with Rapture is bad news."  He taps one talon on the table.  "Hairgel, Daniel's new friend, is just a warm body.  Works for—or, I should say, _is owned by_ —whoever moves the drug.  It's going to be someone high up in organized crime.  And that probably means we'll have to shoot our way through an army to get to the bastard.  But that's okay.  We've done it before."   
  
John's got that pinched-lip expression on his face that means he's trying not to laugh.  He's looking at Garrus with a mixture of amusement, admiration and a familiar _something else_ , the _something else_ that Garrus can never quite identify.   
  
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says.  "We'll find Daniel, first.  And then we'll ask him what his intentions are."   
  
They sit in silence.  Garrus goes over everything  he's learned, etching it into his memory.  It's one of his rituals, to internalize the intel, so that, if it comes to it, any instinctive reaction under stress will be the right one.  It doesn't take long, and when he's done, his mind is clear.  He stands up.    
  
John raises an eyebrow.   
  
"What?"  Garrus says.  He begins to unfasten the clasps on his armor.   
  
John smiles and drains his glass.  "For a second there, I thought you were going to just leave."   
  
  


***

  
  
"This is Milgrom," John says.  His hand sweeps over the high-rises and boulevards.  A quick flick of the wrist, and the map centers on a hilly region outside the built-up zone of the city proper.  "This is the suburb we're interested in."  His hand moves again, and the view zooms in to a small house perched on a cliff overlooking the city.  "And this is the address in Lambert's file."    
  
"It's a pretty defensible position."  Taylor leans over the conference table.  "What do we know about the bad guys?  We gonna have to fight our way in there?"   
  
John shakes his head.  "Judging from the sat photos Liara sent me, there aren't any defenses.  Feeds from the traffic camera at this intersection—his finger hovers above the map—don't show anything but the usual suburban activity.  And her source says any kind of force buildup would be noticeable in that neighborhood.  Most of the residents have a token security staff.  Personal bodyguard, nothing more.  It's all very... civilized."   
  
"Wow," Taylor says.  "So we can just walk in?  That'll be a nice change."    
  
"Don't get too excited,"  Garrus says.  "I know there's a _but_ coming."   
  
John looks at him, seems about to say something.  But then he just sucks in air through his teeth, and turns back to the map.   
  
"Liara also found this."  He taps the console, and a vid begins to play.    
  
A restaurant.  White tablecloths, real flowers in the vases.  Waiters in black shirts and pants carrying oversized trays high above the tables.  The viewpoint is from overhead, a fixed security cam.    
  
"There's our old friend Hairgel," Garrus says.  "Back wall, second table from the right."   
  
"Who's the other guy?" Taylor asks.    
  
John pauses the vid.  "His name is Mikel Regada.  He's a lieutenant in a syndicate that calls itself  Ajuda.  Not one of the largest on Bekenstein, but well-run.  Used to do mainly specialized contract work.  But Liara says they're moving up.  Regada, and some of his underlings, have been observed at a medical research facility twenty klicks out of Milgrom.  Not a one-time thing.  Regada's there practically every day.  Liara says most of the researchers deal with, quote, newly-discovered compounds from xenoflora and their effects on human neurophysiology.  Some big names.  Apparently they're well-regarded in the field."   
  
"This gang's getting in at the forefront of drug research," Garrus says.  "That's innovative thinking for lowlife scum.  Criminals aren't usually interested in long-term projects with high failure rates.  It's almost like... they have money to burn."   
  
"So you think they're using Morel to fund this research?"  Taylor asks.  "Or is he into them for something besides Rapture?"   
  
"If Morel's just a customer, and Hairgel's just a delivery boy who turns tricks, he's got no reason to be talking to Regada."   
  
"Five minutes out from Bekenstein, Commander," Joker calls over the intercom.   
  
John shuts down the display.  "Let's go."   
  
  


***

  
  
There's literally no security.  The shuttle drops them off a few meters from the front door and they walk straight up to it.    
  
John hits the intercom.  "John Shepard, to see Daniel Morel."   
  
A synthesized voice replies, "One moment, please."   
  
John walks a few paces away from the door and turns to look out over the cliff.  Garrus follows the direction of his gaze.  From here, the view of the city is impressive, even seen through the early morning haze.  There's a small garden between the house and the edge of the cliff.  It looks a lot like the one under the study window in Morel's old house.  Peaceful.  There's even a pond—Garrus wanders over to it—yes, fish too.    
  
There's a beep from the house and the front door unlocks.  It opens, and Morel is standing there.  He looks like he just got out of bed.  He's wearing only baggy pants and his feet are bare.  There's more than a day's worth of stubble on his chin.  He blinks at John.   
  
"Hello, Daniel."   
  
"Fuck."  Morel walks away, back into the house, leaving the door open.   
  
John seems to think this is adequate invitation.  He walks in.  Garrus shifts his shoulders to make sure his weapons are still there, exchanges a glance with Taylor, and follows.   
  
The living room has three leather couches arranged around an unused fireplace.  There are bookcases and display shelves on one of the walls, but they're all empty.  The mantel above the fireplace is bare.  The only things in the room besides the furniture are a bottle of Scotch and a glass, both sitting on a side table.  Morel throws himself onto the largest couch and runs a hand through his hair.    
  
"Does Ariane have you running her errands now?"   
  
John ignores the question.  He takes up a position on the opposing wall.  "What are you doing, Daniel?"   
  
"Me?  I'm living my own life and minding my own business."  Morel grabs the bottle of Scotch and pours himself a large one.  "What are _you_ doing, John?"  He downs the contents of the glass and laughs sardonically.   
  
"Daniel.  Focus.  Look at me."   
  
Morel wags a finger in the air.  "Still look good, John.  I'll give you that.  Running around killing people suits you."  He pours another drink.   
  
Garrus can tell by the set of John's shoulders that he's tense.  But he can't see John's face from where he's standing, and he needs to, so he takes a couple of steps to the left.   
  
Morel looks at him.  "Who the fuck are you?"   
  
Garrus is prepared for this.   _This time I get to pick what I pretend to be._  "Mr. Morel.  Who's running the company while you're here?  Are you planning to remain on Bekenstein permanently?  Have you appointed a successor?  And will outstanding contracts for ag-mechs continue to be honored?"   
  
Morel makes a rude noise.  "Ah, fuck you.  And you can tell the fucking Hierarchy to fuck themselves."  He looks at John.  "Fucking turians."   
  
There's a brief flash of humor in John's eyes, but Morel is drinking from his glass and doesn't see it.  John says, "What's your connection to Ajuda, Daniel?"   
  
Morel stretches both arms out along the back of the couch and leans his head back.  "I don't owe you any answers, John."   
  
"I bet you'll answer anyway."   
  
"Yeah, why not.  We have...  a mutually beneficial business arrangement."   
  
John folds his arms.  "They supply you with Rapture."   
  
Morel laughs, his head lolling.  "And so much more."   
  
"What else?"   
  
Morel doesn't answer.   
  
John takes a step closer.  "What else do they give you, Daniel?"   
  
Morel stands up unsteadily.  He extends an arm and sweeps it around the room.  "Everything!  A whole other life!"  He collapses back onto the couch.   
  
"And what do you give them, Daniel?" John says, softly.   
  
Morel shrugs, his bare shoulders sliding against the leather of the couch.  "Just money.  That's all they want."   
  
"Where's your stuff?"   
  
"My what?"   
  
"The paintings you used to have.  The antique arms collection.  The old photographs."   
  
"In crates, somewhere."  Morel waves vaguely towards the hallway which leads to the rest of the house.  "They packed it all for me.  Haven't unpacked."   
  
"It's been two weeks," John says.  "What have you been doing?"   
  
"Living my own fucking life!"   
  
There's a noise from somewhere else in the house.  It's faint, but Garrus is sure he heard it.  Like a drawer being slid open.  He flicks a mandible.  John's eyes acknowledge the warning, and Taylor nods slightly.   
  
John says, "Why'd you get the tattoo removed, Daniel?"    
  
Morel runs his left hand over his right bicep.  "Wiped the slate clean.  Just like it never happened."   
  
"But it did happen.  And it meant something to you, once.  It meant a hell of a lot to you."  John runs a finger down the left side of his own face.  "I see you also got that scar taken care of.  You had the choice at the time, and you said you'd rather keep it, in memory of your men, the ones who died.  You change your mind about that too?"   
  
"Hey, if I could get back all those fucking years I spent working for the Alliance, I would.  At least the syndicate admits they're thieves and murderers."   
  
"That's what you think of your platoon?  Those who died serving humanity?"  Taylor says.  "You're a disgrace to their memory."   
  
Morel squints at him.  "Who the fuck are you?"   
  
John sighs.  "This is pointless."  He turns, and his hand goes to his holster.  In a louder voice, he declares, "He's not himself.  We should just have all his accounts frozen."     
  
Garrus moves between Morel and the hallway, his own hand reaching back for his rifle.  A second later, Hairgel emerges from the back room, holding a pistol.  He fires, and Taylor's barrier flickers as it absorbs the energy from the round.  Almost simultaneously, there's another shot, and Hairgel falls to the floor.   
  
John signals Taylor forward.  Taylor takes point and slides into the hallway, stepping over the body, leading with his shotgun.    
  
"Clear," he says.  He and John disappear into the next room.   
  
Garrus keeps one eye on Morel as his ears track the progress of the other two through the house.  Morel doesn't seem unduly distressed by the fact that his lover has a hole between the eyes, courtesy of John's pistol.  Garrus wonders if any of this has even registered on him.   
  
"You're not from the Ag Ministry, are you," Morel says, distantly.   
  
"No," Garrus says.   
  
"You're with John?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"That other guy—Marine?"   
  
"Ex-Marine."   
  
"Hmm.  Figures."  Morel closes his eyes.  "Word of advice.  You can pass this along to your friend.  Don't break up with John Shepard, 'cause sooner or later he'll come to your house and shoot your lover."   
  
Garrus spends the next few minutes resolutely not thinking about smashing Morel's face in, concentrating instead on listening to the sounds from the rest of the house.    
  
John's voice in his earpiece:  "House is clear.  We're heading back to you, Garrus."   
  
Morel's eyes open when the two men re-enter the room.  He drawls, "Did you really have to kill him, John?  I liked having him around.  Dumber than dirt, but a _great_ lay."   
  
"You don't seem too broken up about it," John says, holstering his weapon.   
  
"That's because I'm on some fucking good shit.  What's your excuse?"  Morel stares at John.  "You don't feel a thing, do you?  It's just another kill to you.  Add it to the scorecard.  John Shepard, fucking hero.  Do you even know how many lives you've taken?"   
  
Taylor says, "Do you know how many lives you're destroying by working with this syndicate?"   
  
"Oh fuck, is this the _drugs are evil_ speech?  It's called free will, sunshine.  People have it.  They don't have to use.  Ajuda provides a product because there is a demand.  No demand, no syndicate.  Basic economics, baby."   
  
"Free will?"  Taylor steps closer.  "I suppose you'll say the people you have your fun with while you're on Rapture are having sex with you out of their own free will.  And when you're done with them, and they're begging you for the drug and puking their organs out into the gutter, I guess that's free will too."   
  
John puts an arm out in front of Taylor and says, "Don't get any closer."   
  
"How sweet," Morel says.  "Don't worry, I won't touch him.  Won't even try.  I don't kill everyone who gets in my way.  Unlike you—"   
  
"Commander."  Joker's voice over the comm.  "There's a couple of shuttles heading straight at you.  I'm guessing they're not the neighborhood welcome committee bringing you milk and cookies."   
  
John looks at Morel.  "Your friends from Ajuda?"   
  
"Maybe.  How the fuck would I know?"   
  
"I knew it was too good to last," Taylor says.      
  
Garrus unholsters his rifle and moves to a spot by the window.  The whine of shuttles is getting louder.  The first one comes into view, dips down low and lands.  The second is behind the house.  Boots on the ground.  At least a dozen men in each shuttle.    
  
Someone says: "Move out.  And watch for snipers!"   
  
_ Good advice. _  Garrus sneaks a look over the window sill.  No lack of targets.  He puts a round into the head of the nearest one and crouches back down.  There’s shouting.  A grenade lands on the floor next to him.  He picks it up and throws it back out, towards the shouting.  An explosion.  More shouting.   
  
The front door bursts inwards with the sound of ripping metal.  Taylor's arms move, there's a crackle of blue light, and the confused screams of someone being accelerated into the path of a shotgun blast.  Then the back door gives way with another crash, and for the next several minutes Garrus has no time to enjoy the fight.  Part of his mind notices John going towards the hallway, the blur in the air when he cloaks, the sound of weapons fire being exchanged at the back of the house.  But he has little attention to spare because the tactical situation is less than optimal at the moment.  The bastards are trying to get inside through the door and the windows and he's got to keep moving because leather couches are shit as cover and even more so when they're as perforated as these ones are right now.   _Run duck fire repeat_  and well, there's less of them now, at least the breathing ones, so this isn't going too badly— _fuck_ Taylor's been hit, he's flat on the ground and _shit_ _shit shit_ they're breaking through, _run duck fire got the fucker_ and as if that isn't enough, he has to keep Morel from stepping into the path of a fucking bullet—   
  
"Drop it."    
  
He turns.  Morel's standing over Taylor with a pistol in his hand, not quite pointing it at Taylor's head. It's quiet.  None of the bad guys are moving and the shooting has stopped, except for some sporadic shots coming from the back of the house.   
  
"Drop your weapon, turian."   
  
"Or what?  You'll kill him?"   
  
"That's the usual implication when someone says _drop it_ while holding a gun to your friend's head.  You want a minute to think it through?"   
  
"So I drop my weapon, and then what?  You think you're going to walk out of here?  Go plot to take over the world with Ajuda?"   
  
"That's the plan, yeah."   
  
Taylor's fingers are moving.  His eyes are still closed, but he's conscious.His index finger draws a tiny circle in the air.   
  
"Not going to happen," Garrus says.   
  
"Then I guess your friend dies."  Morel's finger moves on the trigger.   
  
"Daniel."  John, in the hallway.  "Stop.  Think about what you're doing."   
  
"I am thinking about it, John.  I think about what I'm doing all the time.  All the fucking time.  Can't stop thinking about it.  Where do you think all my good ideas come from?"   
  
"Daniel.  What were you just saying about not killing everyone who gets in your way?"   
  
"Yeah, well.  Time and circumstance make liars of us all."    
  
John lowers his weapon and takes a few steps closer.  "What happened to you, Daniel?  What happened to the man I knew?"   
  
Morel gives a short bark of laughter.  "He died, John.  Or maybe he never really existed."   
  
"He did exist.  Once."   
  
"No, he just had you fooled."   
  
"Daniel, listen to me—"   
  
"You listen to me, John.   _This_ _is me._  I choose this.  My free will."  Morel holds out his hand, palm down, fingers extended.  "See?  Stone cold sober.  And I say fuck the Alliance, fuck Ariane and her fucking redfruit wine, fuck the company, fuck Demeter.  Fuck the fate of fucking humanity.  I don't give a fuck."  He stares at John, then turns his face away.  "Never did."   
  
Garrus sees the anger flare in John's eyes.  Sees his weapon come up and aim at Morel.  Sees the numbers in his visor scrolling up, John's heartrate rising.  Sees John's shoulders tensing.  He _feels_ John's rage.  Garrus lets his instincts take over, lets his body do what it knows to do, lets time slow down as _Taylor throws a barrier up and rolls left and Morel's finger hits the trigger and his head jerks back and the blood blooms between his eyes and he falls while the other round makes the barrier dance and drops with a rattling sound to the dark wood floor_.   
  
Morel's eyes are open, staring.  His mouth is open too, pleading.  The face is a mess.  Not for the first time. A flap of skin hangs down over his left eye, exposing white bone beneath.  Garrus hears, somewhere behind him, the crack of a medigel pack and Taylor hissing in pain.  He remembers Ariane Morel, posed, the red jewel at her throat.  He looks up at the bare walls surrounding them, riddled with hundreds of bullet holes.  Then looks back down into the ruined face.   _So this is Daniel Morel._   
  


***

  
  
Taylor leans back against the bulkhead of the shuttle with a grunt, holding his side.  "Damn that fuckin' psycho.  You sure know how to pick them, Shepard."   
  
"Well, I think my taste has improved since then."  John's lips curl briefly, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.   
  
Garrus says, "I'm sorry about Daniel, John.  I'm sorry it had to end that way."   
  
"Yeah.  One for your scorecard, Garrus."   
  
"Better mine than yours."   
  
Taylor looks out the shuttle window.  "Was that all bullshit, Shepard?  Do you think it's true, that he never cared?"   
  
John shakes his head.  "I'd like to think he did care, once.  But I—"  He shakes his head again.   
  
Garrus puts a hand on his shoulder.  "You okay?"   
  
"Yeah."  John rubs the back of his neck.  He's tired.  "No.  I'm tired.  And—"  He stops.  "But it doesn't matter anymore.  In the end, he wasn't who I thought he was."   
  
Garrus catches John's gaze and says, deliberately, "Yeah, not really your type.  Everyone knows you like men with scars."   
  
John's eyebrow rises.  "You sure of that?"   
  
"You were pretty convincing last night."  He steps closer, and presses his hand to John's cheek.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Taylor nodding. "Shit.  This explains a lot.  A _hell_ of a lot."  He snorts.  "Add a few hundred million turian military to the waiting list, and you got your work cut out for you, Shepard."   
  
John's laughing now, a full-throated laugh coming from deep within him.  "Unattractive, Jacob."   
  
Then he smiles at Garrus, and there's that _something_ in his eyes again.  Garrus thinks, maybe, he's beginning to understand what that _something_ is.


End file.
